Sympathy for the Devil
by Spiritus Scriptor
Summary: Aziraphale, after witnessing a certain incident in the garden of Gethsemane, decides that Crowley is at fault for Jesus's betrayal. After being accosted by the indignant angel, Crowley turns up at the Crucifixion and admits his true feelings on the matter.


**Ah, the Killer Plot Bunnies strike again. This was written in one sitting, so it hasn't undergone much revision. This had been rattling around in my brain for a while and I just wanted to get it out there.**

 **My knowledge of biblical stuff is actually somewhat sparse and perfunctory when it comes to anything past about the middle of Exodus, so feel free to point out any mistakes I may have made.**

 **And yeah, some of the dialogue gets pretty anachronistic, but I'm working from source material that uses the phrase "that went over like a lead balloon" at the beginning of creation, so I think I can take some creative license there.**

 **But yeah...I'm probably going to hell for this.**

* * *

The young man was quite distraught, Aziraphale could tell. He had told his companions to stay behind, as he had wanted to be alone to pray. And what better place was there to gain some calm than a garden? However, as soon as he was out of sight of anyone, the poor soul collapsed onto the ground and started beseeching his Father to grant him the strength to commit to his fate. He was trembling like a leaf, and Aziraphale thought to himself that he had never seen such utter devotion and agony.

He longed to make his presence known, to comfort the terrified soul who knelt in the clearing, weeping silently as he prayed—but he dare not. It would not do to interfere. This was ineffable. It was supposed to happen, and any little thing might throw it off. And so Aziraphale knelt and offered up a prayer of his own that the poor man should not have to suffer long, letting a few of his own tears fall as he did so.

His demise had been brought about by one of the twelve who were closer to him than anyone. That one, a Judas Iscariot by name, had betrayed his teacher in exchange for a paltry handful of silver. And Aziraphale had a fairly good idea of who was responsible…

Drying his eyes, he turned back and headed off to find him, filled with righteous anger and resolve.

* * *

Admittedly, Aziraphale did not keep close enough tabs on his adversary as he should have. When he finally found Crowley, he was miles away in a seedy tavern, drinking and gambling with a crowd of cutthroats. He couldn't believe it had taken him this long to find the demon. His wings ached in complaint of the distance, and he didn't know how it was possible for Crowley to have gotten so far in one night. There was the slightest chance that he may not have been involved at all, after all humans were devious enough on their own sometimes. But this…this had the mark of the devil written all over it. There was no way Crowley _couldn't_ be involved.

Crowley was hunkered down over a table, rolling dice and grabbing coins, surrounded by thieves and prostitutes. It appeared he was winning whatever game they were playing, as every time he rolled the crowd would erupt in drunken cheers. His opponent, however, looked dismayed at every turn. A woman dressed in bright gauzy fabric had draped herself over Crowley's arm and whispered in his ear at intervals, always drawing away with a coquettish giggle. He would smile, pat her hand indulgently, and roll again.

Aziraphale was growing tired from his perch on the roof. This had to end sometime. And when it did, he'd be ready.

Finally, Crowley waved a hand, signifying that the game was over. The crowd dispersed, immediately lost in their cups again. The demon said a few words to his lady, evidently something about meeting her later, because she smiled and nodded eagerly, and then disappeared up a back stairway.

Crowley made his way through the back door into a dark alleyway, and in an instant, he found himself flat on his back on the dusty ground, the front of his tunic gripped by a strong hand and a dagger pressed to the hollow of his throat. He willed himself sober, and as his head cleared, he saw it was the angel, eyes fairly blazing with rage. With one hand, he picked him up and slammed him against a wall, keeping the dagger pressed to his throat.

"What have been your dealings with Judas Iscariot?" demanded Aziraphale. "Tell me, or I swear I'll dispatch you here and now!"

Crowley, feeling slightly dazed from the impact, held up his hands. "Angel, it may have managed to escape your attention, but ever since the travelling do-gooder and his band of merry imbeciles started preaching all over the countryside, I've made a pointed effort to steer clear of them!"

Aziraphale shoved the tip of his dagger into Crowley's skin, drawing the tiniest drop of blood. "How _dare_ you call them that?" he roared.

"I'm a _demon_. What did you expect me to call them?" Crowley snarked. He swallowed, desperate for the pressure of the knife's tip to be gone. "Look, angel, I'd be more than happy to discuss this with you, but can you put the knife _down_? Just for a minute? I promise I won't try anything. You have my word." He felt the pressure lift from beneath his Adam's apple as the angel eyed him warily.

"How can I trust the word of a demon?" he growled.

" _Please_." Crowley said desperately. "I swear I will not do anything to harm you. I won't try to run. I'm only out here because I've had a lot to drink and I _really_ need to piss."

"All right." Aziraphale huffed, removing the dagger, but not putting it away. "Fine. But I'm staying right here, and if you make any sudden movements, I _will_ dispose of you."

The demon nodded in understanding and sidled off to a dark corner.

"Hey!" barked Aziraphale. "You stay where I can see you!"

Crowley rolled his eyes and resorted to using the wall directly opposite the angel, his face reddening with embarrassment which he hoped Aziraphale couldn't see. The angel had his dagger pointed at the demon's back, but had averted his gaze to afford him some privacy.

"Now," the demon said when he had finished. "Whatever this grave matter is, can it be discussed civilly, or are you going to try to torture some false confession out of me?"

"That depends on whether or not you tell me the truth, demon. If I find you have been spouting falsehoods, so help me, you will regret the day you Fell!"

"Sheesh!" breathed Crowley, hands up in defeat. "Calm down! All I meant was, let's sit down, have a quiet drink, and discuss this like reasonable people. Y'know, without the bloodshed." He rubbed at the offending spot on his throat.

The irate angel eyed him dubiously before he finally acquiesced. " _One_ drink. One. I will not sink to your level of debauchery, demon."

"My _name_ is Crowley," he reminded him, annoyed.

Aziraphale sheathed his dagger and the two headed inside.

* * *

It should have been raining. The heavens themselves should have wept for the man who hung on a couple of roughhewn planks of wood, dying the most agonizing and torturous death yet devised.

This was not what he had prayed for. This was not what the Son of God deserved.

The sky was a clear and cloudless blue as the supposed king of the Jews breathed his last, a crown of thorns upon his head in mockery of his "title".

Aziraphale stood amid the jeering crowd, tears streaming down his face as all around him people shouted and screamed all manner of obscenities, curses, and pejoratives. This just wasn't how it should be.

But it was how it had to be. It was ineffable.

He felt a sudden presence behind him, one that felt as though it should have been reveling in the moment, but wasn't. A hand cupped his shoulder lightly.

"Hey," said a quiet voice, prompting him to turn around.

"Crowley," he acknowledged, sniffling and wiping at his tears. The last thing he needed was for his enemy to see any hint of softness in him. "Why are you here?"

"I…looked into things," the demon admitted, his gaze wandering to the side. It might have been the angel's imagination, but he appeared to look almost… _sad_. "And before you have a go at me, I'd just like to say that I had nothing to do with it."

"Well?" asked his heavenly counterpart testily.

"That Iscariot fellow…he's dead. He returned the money and ran out of the temple, just like that. They say he just couldn't stand the fact that he'd betrayed him…although _how_ he died is a different matter. Some are claiming that he hung himself, and some are saying that he fell off a cliff, or jumped, or…I don't know. But he's _dead…_ " Crowley broke off, his voice surprisingly brittle as his gaze darted here and there, never focusing on a single point.

"And you're lamenting the loss of such a great asset to your side, I suppose," said the angel, not quite believing what Crowley had just told him.

"No! Well—yes—I should be, I guess, but…" the demon sighed. There was more genuine sorrow in that single act than Aziraphale would have thought him capable of. Finally, Crowley looked at him, his serpentine eyes glassy. "Aziraphale, you're just going to have to believe me…I didn't want _anyone_ to die. Not Judas, and not…" he broke off and looked over at the hill, where they were now taking down the body. The poor mother had her face buried in her hands, sobbing. Now that the excitement was over, the crowd began to dissipate. Soon it was only the angel and the demon left standing on a hill, watching the pitiful excuse for a funeral procession away from the cross upon which the Son of God had breathed his last.

"Not _him_. Especially not him. Remember when I told you I'd been steering clear of his lot? It was to give him a chance, and to give people a chance to _believe_ him, without being corrupted. I guess you could say I… _admired_ him, in a way. At least, I liked him a lot better than those other sanctimonious bastards who lived and breathed only to show off and gloat about how pious and righteous they were."

The angel merely stared at him, awestruck. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"I mean," Crowley continued. "How many of _them_ would get their hands dirty reaching out to the lepers and the whores and whoever else? The ones everyone else skirts around and pretends not to notice, like they're piles of shit in the street." He heaved a shuddering sigh, his voice finally breaking as he whispered, "The scum of the earth. Like me."

Aziraphale was at a loss, he did not know how to respond to such a heartfelt confession from his enemy.

"Crowley," he said finally, laying a comforting hand on his adversary's shaking shoulder. "You're not…"

"I am," the demon countered, sniffling, as a tear stole down the side of his nose. "Oh, angel...if only I were human, I would have followed him in a heartbeat."

Overcome with emotion, Crowley broke down completely and sobbed. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around the shaking demon and let him cry into his shoulder. No human person was there to see, but if God and the angels happened to be watching from on high, well, they could just watch. He couldn't quite bring himself to care.

"Shh," he soothed, rubbing his back. "There now. It's all right."

Crowley lifted his head, sniffled, and wiped his eyes.

"We should be going," he said.

Aziraphale nodded and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, leading the tearful demon back towards the city.

* * *

 **I dunno...I always feel weird about writing stuff involving biblical characters. It's like, do people do that, or am I the only weirdo? But there's a whole list of Prince of Egypt fics on this site, so I guess I shouldn't feel too weird.**

 **Reviews are always welcome!**


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